That flowered here in the year
I sold to slavery my heart
No pain ever was so dear
As the pain that was your art
I sold to slavery my heart
Into your keeping I eagerly came
As the pain that was your art
Wrapped us like a picture's frame
Into your keeping I eagerly came
Wishing the joy would not be brief
Wrapped us like a picture framed
Behind broken glass reflecting grief.
Wishing the joy would not be brief
Too eager by far to penetrate
Behind broken glass reflecting grief
I did not see until far too late
Too eager by far to penetrate
I went looking for the red bloom.
I did not see until far too late
Small and scarlet, it was my doom
(this poem is a format I recently have tried... the 2nd and 4th line of each stanza becomes the 1st and 3rd line of the next.)